


We The People

by poisontaster



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Female Character of Color, Gen, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ask your recruiter for more information about the exciting opportunities and benefits available to you as a citizen-soldier of the US Collective Armed Forces.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We The People

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the A Kept Boy universe, but is not related to any storyline or character.

_The US Collective Armed Forces are the single largest free workforce in the USNA, composed of the best-trained, most dedicated, most respected soldiers in the world—protecting the USNA's freedoms at home and abroad, securing our homeland and defending democracy worldwide._

_A citizen-soldier in the Collective Armed Forces is the embodiment of strength: physical, emotional and strength of purpose. As a citizen-soldier, you'll be prepared to serve our country whenever and wherever you're needed, combat-ready at all times, trained to counter any threat, anywhere._

The corner of Tara's mouth ticked up ruefully, the glossy brochure crinkling between her fingers. Even when she'd first enlisted, she hadn't been all that interested in the hoo-hah, _yay, USNA!_ flag-waving. It hasn't gained any real allure in the years since. 

_No organization offers you an education quite like the US Collective Armed Forces. A CAF education gives you the strength, training and knowledge to become a leader in your future career. Service in the Collective Armed Forces will give you unparalleled opportunities to gain hands-on training and specialized skills that stay with you through your military or civilian career._

_Below are just some of the scholarships and grants we offer to help you earn money for a college education or to pay off existing college loans. Ask your recruiter for more information about the exciting opportunities and benefits available to you as a citizen-soldier of the US Collective Armed Forces._

That was what she told people, of course: that she did it for the money. Money in her pocket, money to go to school. Money to get the fuck out of the tin-can dead-end of the trailer park. _Money._

That was mostly what they all said and, mostly, they all knew it was bullshit. Or…not bullshit, because, by and large, they wanted—needed—the money, too. But it wasn't the whole story. It was never the whole story. But that wasn't something any of them ever needed to talk about, the understanding implicit in their presence. Even the grunts that had joined up for other ostensible reasons—patriotism, duty, family—had that other, silent reason at the back of their minds.

They all knew the score.

"Private Reid?" 

"Ma'am." Months of practice have taught her to stand without too much awkwardness. She took the sergeant's offered hand, clocking the wiry, no-nonsense strength of the grip, despite the sergeant's slight-looking build. The sergeant's nameplate read Rodriguez. 

"Come back to the office," Rodriguez said. "You want some coffee?"

Tara hadn't had the money to eat that morning. Putting CAF coffee on an empty stomach was just begging for an ulcer. "No thank you."

"All right then." The office wasn't terribly bigger than Rodriguez's metal desk but the lack of space didn't faze Tara; it bothered her a damn sight more to sit with her back to the open door. 

Rodriguez had Tara's jacket already open on her desk. A glance at her upside-down face, baby fat still on her cheeks, was more than she needed. 

"Let's see what we've got here." Rodriguez seated herself. 

Rodriguez didn't look much older than Tara, but she picked up a pair of square gold-rimmed granny glasses from the desk top and perched them on the end of her nose. A moment later, she smiled up at Tara. "I did my Basic at Ft. Jackson, too."

Tara smiled back because it was expected and because she needed Rodriguez's good will and maybe a little bit because Rodriguez had one of those smiles you couldn't help but grin back. Thankfully, Rodriguez didn’t seem to expect a reply, because she immediately looked down at Tara’s file again. 

Tara hadn’t especially liked or disliked the CAF. It had gotten her the fuck out of her mom’s doublewide and away from the revolving parade of her mom’s skeezy boyfriends, it had honestly made her grow the fuck up, in a way she’d desperately needed, but there had been plenty about it that sucked, too, even after you eliminated getting shot at on a regular basis from the equation. She’d done her six years, as diligently as anyone could’ve asked of her (certainly more diligently than she’d done anything before) and then she’d gotten out.

Though, that she was sitting here, waiting on Rodriguez’s approval, showed that for the bullshit lie it was. 

Tara shifted in the chair, an old habit that’s suddenly complicated by the unevenness of her body, the unequal distribution of weight. The chair creaked sharply as Tara threw her weight back, groping at the seat with her hand, white-knuckling the wood. 

Rodriguez didn’t look up from Tara’s files, but Tara didn’t fool herself that her moment of spazocity had gone unnoticed. Sergeant looked like one of those types that didn’t miss a trick. 

"Four years in Afghanistan. That’s a long deploy," Rodriguez observed, sounding interested without looking up. 

Tara shrugged. "It was the job." And it wasn't like she'd caught Bin Laden, or anything. 

Rodriguez hummed noncommittally, reading for another few moments before flicking the pages back to their original configuration and removing her glasses, focusing on Tara. "Your injury—" She gestured at the remnant of Tara's left arm. "It's not from combat."

Tara's smile was reflexive, though it felt like the furthest thing from amusement. "No," she agreed. "I was in a car accident." She said the words, but closed the door firmly on the images that wanted to come with them. There wasn't much she could do about the soft, persistent itch from the place where her forearm used to be, though, except breathe. "Eighteen months ago."

Rodriguez closed Tara's jacket and leaned back, folding her hands over her flat belly. "Eighteen months…you should've been fitted with a prosthetic by now, shouldn't you?"

Tara's fingers tightened on the seat edge. She'd been ready to be questioned, but not that particular one. "I didn't want one." When Rodriguez's eyebrows arched, Tara explained, "I'm already up to my eyeballs in medical debt…"

"The VA would have covered your medical bills," Rodriguez interjected.

"But not my mom's," Tara points out. "Not my brother's." And thank God the twins hadn't been with them. 

"…and the VA would've paid for a prosthetic." Rodriguez gestured at Tara's left side again.

"A hook on the end of a metal stick," Tara answered, her lip curling. "Not anything like what I'd need to really get by."

"So that's why you want to exercise your re-enlistment option?"

"Which do you mean?" Tara batted back, "The money or the prosthetic?"

"Either." Rodriguez shrugged. 

Tara exhaled through her nose, reminding herself again that she needs Rodriguez's good will. The CAF can't keep her out, not really, but where she ends up…that's completely at Rodriguez's discretion and recommendation. It would help if she had a better grasp on Rodriguez, but the woman's a poker champ.

"I'm reenlisting because otherwise I'm about six hundred dollars from going up on the auction block," Tara said, with the dead, blunt candor she'd picked up since the accident. "And with just the one arm…" Tara shrugged, another gesture that used to be simple and is now less so. "I can't get a decent job and pay down my debt…not like this. The money, the chance of a better prosthetic…that's just the gravy."

Rodriguez stared at her from across the desk for long enough that Tara breaks out in a prickle of sweat, gazing steadily back. 

Then, abruptly, Rodriguez breaks the deadlock, flicking open Tara's service record again and lifting her specs like a magnifying glass to squint through them. "Until we get your fitted for a prosthetic and you get the necessary PT and evaluations, any position I stick you in is most likely to be a temporary assignment," she said, turning pages until she found whatever it was she was looking for. She tapped one small, unpolished nail against the paper before glancing again at Tara. "The goal here being to get you back to combat readiness."

"Of course," Tara agreed, unsurprised, though her voice scratched a little on its way out. The CAF might be obligated to take her back, but her previous service didn't earn her a sinecure…just the promise that, as a citizen-soldier, she wouldn't—couldn't—end up a slave. Her citizen rights were guaranteed, in perpetuity. As long as she was willing to work for them. 

Rodriguez tapped her bottom lip with the stem of her glasses, eyeballing Tara with that same unreadable non-expression. "You do understand that, for the kind of prosthesis you'll need and the costs of retraining, you'll be upping your debt margin exponentially?"

Tara didn't mean to laugh, but it burst from her lips anyway, like an inopportune fart in reverse. "Because I have so many other _really great_ options?"

Rodriguez's mouth bracketed but, strangely enough, Tara didn't think it was because of her. "I just need to know you understand the terms of your reenlistment."

"How long?" Tara asked, and despite her desire to seem unmoved, to seem _oh so cool_ about all of this, she leaned forward in the chair, still hanging on for balance. "How many years?"

Rodriguez turned to her computer and tapped some numbers on the keyboard. Whatever she saw there didn't please her, frown deepening as she punched in another set of numbers. Tara waited, because what the fuck else was there to do? 

The single window in the office was narrow and off-center, like an architectural afterthought, and it's further half-blocked by the vertical climbing lattice of Rodriguez's files, but through the scrupulously clean panes, Tara could see the parade grounds and, beyond that, the parking lot. On the other side of the parking lot, lost in the steely shimmer of cars, was the bus stop. The bus that would take her home. 

Or, at least back to the room she and her mom are sharing at Tom's house. 

"Your debt profile isn't great," Rodriguez said finally and Tara had to freeze her face against a volcanic surge. Of course Rodriguez can access her debt record. Of course she can. "But it's not insurmountable…"

_Unless you don't have any money._ Tara's tongue jammed against her teeth as if to physically prevent the words from sliding on through. 

"There's some wiggle room on your re-sign bonus, is the point," Rodriguez said, eyebrows arching and looking sidelong at Tara as if she'd heard every word Tara had thought. "You get to come in at your previous grade rate, with adjustments for inflation." More tapping at the keyboard. "But the prosthetic…and the rehab. That's what's going to kill you."

Tara shook her head. "Just tell me how long we're talking about."

Rodriguez looked at her. "Minimum seven years," she said flatly. "For the kind of upgrades you're talking about? More like ten."

Ten years. It was less than Tara was expecting and still like a kick in the stomach. In ten years, she'll be almost fifty. _If_ she lives that long. 

Tara flexed fingers that no longer existed and leaned forward in the chair. "Show me where to sign."


End file.
